my head is a little cooler now; the scorching fire of the money your
father tempted me with, and then withdrew, is quenched a little by
years. Now at last I see that you are wasting your time and health with
that pen; you have not made one shilling--one single sixpence for me,
yet, with that pen of yours; your health is going fast; I see the color
of the grave on your thin cheeks. Now I command you to throw away your
pen, and make money for me at any trade, no matter how low or mean."

As she spoke, there was a look approaching to dignity in her wasted
face, and her tones were clear and commanding--the vulgar Irishism and
Scoticism of dialect which, on common occasions, disfigured her
conversation, had disappeared, and it was evident that her intellect had
at one period been cultivated, and superior to the ordinary class of
minds.

Andrew rose without saying one syllable in answer to his mother's
communication; he threw his manuscripts and the sheets which he had
written into a desk; he locked it with a nervous, trembling hand, and
then turned to leave the room. His face was of the most ghastly
paleness; his eyes were calm and fixed; he seemed sick at heart by the
disclosure he had heard; his lips trembled and shook with agitation.

"Where are you going, Andrew? It's a bitter night."

"Mother, it is good enough for me--for a--"

He could not speak the hated word which rose to his lips; he had an
early horror of that word; he had dreaded that his was a dishonorable
birth: even in his boyish days he had feared it; his mother had often
asserted to the contrary, but now she had dispelled the belief in which
he had rested.

He opened the door hastily, and passed out into the storm, which was
rushing against the windows.

A feeling of pity for him--a feeling of a mother's affection and
solicitude, was stirred in Mrs. Carson's soul, as she listened to his
departing footsteps, and then went and seated herself beside the embers
of a dying fire in the kitchen; it was a small, cold,
miserably-furnished kitchen; the desolation of the severe season met no
counterbalancing power there; no cheering appearances of food, or fire,
or any comforts were there. But the complaining spirit which cried and
sighed perpetually was for once silent within Mrs. Carson's mind;
something--perhaps the death-like aspect of her son, or a voice from her
long stifled conscience--was telling her how ill she had fulfilled the
duties of a mother. Sh